Darkness Over the Horizon
1 The young man opened his eyes. In the mirror before him: the steel gaze of the older man standing behind him, his gray eyes the only features unobscured by his dark helm, an obsidian device with a pair of upswept black wings, relayed to him silently, you are ready. Proceed. So the young man proceeded, whether he was ready or not. He took a step to the mirror but paused. His head felt heavy from the weight of his own winged helmet. It thumped a constant throbbing against his head, independently, like within the metal it had its own beating heart. It did, in a way. That was the way it was forged. As trained he let that thumping sync with his heartbeat, as he had prepared. He experienced a sensation in his brain like all his thoughts and questions had one answer, one purpose, one meaning: to survive. And with the sensation came a harmony of extrasensory perceptions: enhanced listening channeled through the helmet’s little horns at its top, he could hear the older man blink, and through the broadened awareness he attained echolocation; hypersensitive smell, on the other side of the mirror, that was also a door, were several sources of a rotting stench; and a narrowed visual field but with pinpoint clarity. He reached out to the mirror and pushed. It opened a crack and through it he spotted the beasts. They were terrible clicking things as long as the height of a man with wide claws, multisegmented bodies, and ravenous appetites. They were also blind. This is what the older man meant by proceed, to enter the labyrinth. Now joined with the helmet, the young man was ready. In his primary hand he held a tri-pointed crimson staff with an end of sharpened steel, and in his other he gripped a kite shield. He pushed the mirror door open all the way, stepped through, and shut it. Down the descending tunnel his eyes locked onto the first torch lit beast and he accelerated toward it. He pointed his staff forward and aimed right between two body segments, splitting it. After a series of clatters it went silent, sliced through the central nervous system, but it was not dead, the young man knew, since he felt nothing. A blow to his back knocked him down. He hit the stone face first and tasted blood on his teeth. Through the helmet the young man was aware the location of every other present beast, to each side and in front of him at unequal distances, and the one that had struck him was above and behind him. He got to his feet before it could strike again and he followed a safe course to the most isolated one. He locked onto its head and pulled his staff back, then thrust it as the beast sighted him and opened its claws. It never had a chance to close them, by then it was dead, punctured through the brain. Immediately the helmet felt lighter and a refreshing feeling traveled into the young man’s mind. The taste of blood vanished off his tongue. He felt stronger and healthier than ever before. It was a short term high, he knew, but permanent was the healing of the wounds he had sustained. At least until he was wounded again. Of that the young man had no intention, but things happened regardless. The helmet gave him abilities both defensive and predatory, with the sole purpose to prolong his life, to survive, to stay alive. They maintained his life by taking the life force released from the creatures he hunted. Such was the way of the Bat Lord people, a methodology forged long ago and maintained now, especially necessary now in the world’s darkening hours. Hunt to survive. Kill to live. 2 Five slayed beasts and an uncounted number of scrapes and bruises later, the young man returned from the labyrinth up a set of stone steps. He had sustained injuries but of course there were of no concern to him; out of sight, out of body; get hurt, kill, get healed; the way of the Bat Lords sort of thing. He felt the presence of the older man, his master, at the top of the landing. He followed the torches to the end of the stairs and was immediately punched in the head. “Seven times you were lethally struck!” the old man roared, and swore, and he sent a high kick flying to the young man’s face, then diverted it to the wall and shattered a stone. The young man remained silent. He knew well not to interrupt Sumac when he was angry; he was better at keeping his master from hitting him, than beastly creatures. His injuries were of course a concern to the older man. “Two months of training!” Sumac growled while waving his hands at the air. “We sparred one-on-one. You learned all the moves. Yet you continue to stretch your life force thin like a bowstring! Are you that terrible a fighter?!” He whirled on the young man again. “Or are you still careless?” Sumac’s eyes narrowed. He flung off his helmet and then removed with sudden gentleness the young man’s helm. He leaned in close to the young man’s face, who reflexively stiffened and tried not to breathe in, or out, while Sumac ‘read his lines,’ as he called it. The old man leaned back, his face a different expression than before. “Kaidrian,” he addressed his apprentice, “can you read my lines?” Kaidrian nodded. He recognized its meaning. It made him angry. “I’m disappointed.” Sumac muttered. “We went over the matter of your attitude. I thought you had it under control-“ He could take it no longer. “I am in control!” Kaidrian proclaimed. “I just choose a different mindset than you!” “Your carelessness will get you killed!” Sumac shouted back. “I have enough to worry about and taking hits isn’t one of them, when killing undoes it all!” Kaidrian argued. “That’s the way of the Bat Lords-“ “That’s not the way of the Bat Lords!” Sumac interrupted. “It will be, when I am in charge!” Kaidrian yelled. “Not if you’re dead!” Sumac punched the wall and cursed when his hand bled. It was a nasty habit of his, punching things. Cradling his fist, Sumac shot Kaidrian one last look and handed the apprentice’s helmet back before fleeing the area. With his master out of earshot, Kaidrian sought to curse as well, but he kept the words in his head. He clenched his fists. Sumac was such a hypocrite. He would flop between respecting him one sentence and verbally punching him the next. One day Sumac’s disrespect would catch up to and ensnare the old man. Despite his youth, Kaidrian was smart. Every child was, and for that he deserved respect. Why could the wise old mentor not see that? Why couldn’t Kaidrian’s father? “We eat with the Longfoxes tonight!” Sumac’s voice echoed back, despite the distance amassed between them. Kaidrian’s mental chaos quelled at mention of the name. The Longfox household joined their clan, headed by Kaidrian’s father, only a week ago. They’re already hosting? Kaidrian thought. That meant they were integrating well, welcomed even. That was good for them. And interesting for Kaidrian, a young man almost two decades old. The Longfoxes had a daughter his age, and Kaidrian did not need the heightened senses of his Bat Lord helmet to know she was very beautiful. Category:Stories